Stephen Mejias

These are not the words to this song.

I mean to say: this is not the entry I planned to post. But things don't always go as planned, and—if you haven't already noticed—I tend to let things twist and turn and skip and jump in whatever fashion they please. Something always comes of it.

And I felt this should be mentioned.

This morning, upon entering Manhattan and climbing into the loud and blurry concrete war, I was surprised to witness something out of the ordinary: perhaps the most beautiful horse I'd ever seen—not that I've seen very many horses in my day, but I'm willing to put money on this one's beauty—walkiing casually down the 6th Avenue sidewalk and clap-clap-clapping across 32nd Street like nobody's business. Now, it's not unusual [cue Tom Jones] to see a horse in the City. But this wasn't one of those stinking, shitting ponies you see causing traffic around Columbus Circle, and this wasn't one of those big, brown beasts you see the cops attracting pretty tourists with, either. This here horse was carrying a painting of the world on its powerful shoulders, brown like the earth and white like the clouds, and was being led by an old, gray-haired cowboy.

While people pushed and shoved and made their frenzied ways around, as though this horse was just another commuter in the loud and blurry morning, I stopped and watched and wondered: "What?"

Together, the horse and the old cowboy walked in some sort of invisible circle of quiet to complete their journey across 32nd Street into a small, triangular asphalt garden of purple posies and pink petunias, passed the Chock Full O' Nuts stand, and into this blog.